


Bastard of the North

by waitingforthehogwartsletter



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arya the Bastard, F/M, Gendry the Crown Prince, reversed roles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-10
Updated: 2014-05-10
Packaged: 2018-01-24 05:33:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1593395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waitingforthehogwartsletter/pseuds/waitingforthehogwartsletter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Robb says you lost the point of your plan, but not its target.” Jon informed her.<br/>“What?” Arya hardly had enough strength to look away from the prince – she had just seen him smile for the first time as he talked to her younger brother Bran, and his smile was magnificent and addicting.<br/>“Robb thinks you like the prince. I agree.” Jon said in a mocking tone.<br/>“That’s stupid.” She informed him, trying to see Jon’s eyes and not think about the blue ones. “Everyone knows a bastard’s place is never near the highborns.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bastard of the North

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not in the right mood to make this a long, intriguing angst-filled story, so it's going to be less than 10 chapters long, with possibly a lot of smut, depending on the feedback. Your wish is my command. :)

 

It was a dull morning, like every other morning in the North. Blocks of ice. Melted snow beneath the fresh layer. Dogs barking in the distance. People running about, doing their business. Taking their duty.

Duty.

It was a long sleeved tunic she was wearing today, a grey, wool tunic she thought was as comfortable as Sansa, lady Stark and all the other ladies were never know. Or would Sansa, and did lady Stark, think it was comfortable to have a man ride you, slam his body over yours? Arya never would think that. But who cares what Arya thinks, eh?

The thing about the tunic, however, was that its sleeves were a bit _too_ long. The itchy collar she had taken care of already – a singular cut and that was all it took for the scrappy material to stop annoying the skin of her neck. She fantasized about being lady Stark, and replacing the collar on her husband’s bastard’s neck (her own, that was) with a true rope, letting her fall into its squeeze and succumb shortly to the world of darkness, to death.

But it was morning, Arya grumbled to herself, as she walked toward the stables, all the way picking  on her sleeves. It was morning, and she had better things to do than harbour masochistic, suicidal thoughts. Even a bastard like herself had better things to do.

“Up so early, miss?”

She spun around on her heel when the voice sounded from her left. There was someone short lingering just beside Mikken’s forge.

Arya squinted in the soft light and realized the short figure was actually Micah, a friend, the butcher’s son. He came with his father several years ago from King’s Landing, when the Queen banished the butcher for bringing her the wrong piece of meat. Arya still didn’t know what truly happened that day, Micah might have been a frightened boy and his father a frightened man, but they weren’t fools, and were one of the smarter commoners she knew – but herself, of course. Arya thought herself to be quite handy. Not that any of it would be of use, though.

“Micah.” She smiled, tilting her head to a side. “How many times do I have to tell you not to call me ‘miss’?”

“When you become something else, that will be the title I will call you for.” Micah deemed and stepped closer to her. He was only a little taller than Arya, a bit chubby when he came to Winterfell, but as he spent years running about with Arya, his form turned to a slender one. Arya promised his father she would make a knight out of him. And almost two years after she said that, Micah was firm with muscles, his reflexes quick, his horse fast and his sword sharp.

“ _Arya_.” She said, smiling. Her friend’s freckly face was bright with a grin, too. He had green eyes and red hair, one that was unusual for Northerners. Of course, her half-sister had gorgeous, light red hair, and lady Stark had red hair that was so dark you could get lost just looking at it, and Robb and Bran had reddish-brown hair, and maybe young Rickon would have red hair when he grew up, but for now it was so dark it only looked red in the sun. “Call me _Arya_.”

“One day, maybe, miss.” Micah said softly.

Arya laughed and turned back to the stables. “Well, come on then, we haven’t got all day.”

She didn’t turn around to see if he’d follow; she simply marched into the stables, not bothering with waking the stable’s boy, and went to her horse, Lord.

“Morning, beautiful.” She murmured to his ear. “Where’s the other half of my heart?”

“I think I saw her at the woods. My father wanted me to catch fresh snow from outside the gates, said he needed to freeze a lot of meat for the feast.” Micah came behind her.

Arya frown and turned her head to side to eye him. Nymeria, the other half of her heart, was forgotten. “What sort of feast? I’ve not heard of any! And it’s winter still, and Robb and Jon’s nameday passed a month ago. Sansa’s is not due in a long time, and neither is the little ones’!”

Micah shrugged, looking perhaps a little scared. No matter how sharp his sword, Arya was the one that taught him how to fight. And Arya was one of the best swordsmen in the area.

“When’s your nameday, though?” he asked, willing her to calm down with a gentle voice. “You never told me.”

“It doesn’t matter. A bastard’s nameday is no day to remember.” Arya muttered, reciting the words lady Stark once told her.

She felt Micah put his hand on her shoulder and speak again. She felt restricted and frozen with his hand there – it didn’t offer any comfort, and Gods knew she needed none.

“Maybe. But I’m willing to believe there are plenty of people in Winterfell that would love to make yours memorable.”

Arya snorted and started to saddle her horse, Micah’s hand falling from her shoulder as soon as she moved away. Thankfully. She ran her fingers through Lord’s thick, black hair for a moment before throwing a saddle on top of his back. “I’ve no reason to celebrate my own birth. No one has. Now, I only want to know if you’re finally going to get ready for riding out or no?”

Micah sighed, and when Arya glanced at him while doing the laces on the saddle, she noticed he looked pained, his eyes big and round and remorseful. “I can’t.”

“Why not?” her fingers froze on the knots for a moment only, and she didn’t turn around. When his voice was heard again, her fingers went back to work.

“I told you – a feast is to be prepared for tonight, and I must help my father. I am almost seven and ten, Arya, and my duty one day – “

“Will be the butchering. Right. Your duty.” She snorted again, pulling herself up onto the saddle in one, swift move. “Everyone has a duty, even you have a bloody duty although we both know I can do anything you can! Only a bloody bastard, and a girl at that, cannot have a duty for her blood is spoiled.”

Micah looked ready to climb on top of the horse and make her calm down, but when he stepped forward, Lord started pulling on the reins in Arya’s hands and glaring at the boy, so he gave up. “You could have a duty, Arya.” He forgot about ‘miss’, and Arya’s blood was boiling already, because this was the thing he had mention already a time or two. “You could… have a house on your own, a man to call you his wife… that man would be able to call you anything you want, he could call you his queen and it’d be all right… imagine, a babe in your stomach, a family around you…”

Micah’s voice was two parts pleading, one part hopeful, and Arya wondered what man exactly had he imagined as her husband. Could it be possible he imagined himself?

“I need no man, no babe, my family is in Winterfell, and the only title I want to be called by anyone is a knight!”

With that, she left the confused, desperate butcher’s boy behind her as she stormed off to the woods.

***

She was often told she looked a lot like a real Stark. Each time she heard that, she wondered why wasn’t she real, why wasn’t she a Stark?

Because her father made a slip? She though it was the worst thing to happen to either her or him. He had to bare the consequence of making a bastard child and then taking care of her for her whole life, he had to make trouble to his wife, and the poor girl had to live the life of a bastard, through constant teasing and insults and being reminded of how low she truly was in the eyes of the people.

There was that running of blood, Arya knew. Whenever she got angry, she felt her blood run faster and hotter through her veins, and then she was even angrier, for she knew that was a bastard’s filthy blood.

Lord took her to the meadow beside the Godswood, bolting over the frozen ground until Arya calmed down. Then, the horse slowed their pace and took her silently to the Godswood.

“Smart.” She muttered to her horse as he swiftly moved through the thick trees. She felt a familiar nag in her chest and knew where to look just a moment before Nymeria scrambled out of the darkness and saw the girl. Arya wasn’t Nymeria’s master – just like dragons, direwolves had no masters either.

“Nymeria, come.” Arya jumped of the saddle and held onto the reins with one hand, while extending the other to the direwolf.

Gigantic, grey wolf approached her without any hesitation and nuzzled her head into Arya’s hand. She smiled. “Good girl.”

Godswood was her favourite place in the world. She looked around it now, her head looking up and all around. The trees were tall, wide, white and ancient. There was a sort of safe silence in the air, something Arya did not dare called holy, for she was not certain she was the proper creature to state such a thing. She tied Lord to a tree before following Nymeria deeper into the woods, trusting the direwolf’s instinct better than her own.

“You know where I want to go, right?” Arya softly asked her dear friend. “The Heart Tree.”

Nymeria only whined in response.

Just as Arya was sure they were nearing the tree, Nymeria froze in spot, her body tensing and the fur on her neck rising. Arya briefly wondered why the wolf hadn’t growled yet, when she heard the voices.

She swallowed thickly and pushed the dread away from her mind. It was lady Stark.

“…she could be satisfied, but – “

“Gods, Cat, a man would think the boy already loves her!”

Arya felt breath hitch in her throat. Father. But what were they talking about?

Her father spoke again. “May I remind you my lady, that they have not yet met. I am not quite certain the boy knows of her existence, either.”

Lady Stark sounded offended. She sounded like her husband had just slapped her. “Of course he knows of her! Singers in all of Westeros must know and sing of her beauty!”

“I doubt they do, my dear. But yes, the whole of Westeros must already know of our daughter’s beauty.”

So it was Sansa they were talking about.

Arya frowned. What with her? Who hasn’t she met – oh!

Arya clasped a hand over her own mouth.

Maybe the feast tonight would have Sansa meet her potential suitor!

There was an emptiness in Arya’s stomach at the thought. She didn’t want Sansa to be married off – she wanted her there, no matter how many times they fought, Arya wanted her sister, even if it was a half-sister, beside her.

She realized her father and his wife were still talking and shuffled a little closer to hear.

“I don’t know if I want her as his wife.”

“What – Ned! Someone as important as him, Sansa would be thrilled! And it would truly be a strong match, a healthy and secure one. Bringing these two houses together –“

“Gods, Cat, can’t you not think about propriety of the politics and status for just a moment and think of your daughter’s true happiness in the longer period?”

Arya mentally gave herself an order to hug her father next time she saw him.

“Ned, I realize that must be very important to you…”

“This is not about what’s important to me. It is about what is right, and what would make our daughter happy.”

“Like it made you happy to lay with that woman all those years ago? Like it made you happy to bring a bastard to me when I had only just come here after leaving everything for a man I barely knew? Was that right, Ned? How proper was that?”

Her father kept silent, and Arya tried to calm her racing heart. It was nothing she hasn’t heard before. She had been accused of being born for so many times, and still, this woman manages to, unconsciously even, make her heart jump in her chest.

She wasn’t going to stop at that, it seemed. Lady Stark kept talking and talking.

“…and what do you plan with her? Would she stay with us in Winterfell until we’re old and bold and she’s older than we are now?”

“I am sorry for what I did, Catelyn. But Arya is my daughter, as much as each of your children is my child, too. I will not hear you speak of her rudely anymore. You can blame me for all you want, but you will not harm her in any way for something she had no choice in.”

There was a cruel silence.

Arya wanted to run to Winterfell, to Jon, to stables, to Micah, to Robb or even Theon, to feel safe and forget all the mean words she’s ever been told. She wanted to be braver and step out in front of the husband and wife, and tell them what she had to say. Most of all, she wanted to turn around and run away. From everything, from everyone.

But out of all that, she thought running away would be most cowardly.

“I will leave you, then, to your peace.” She heard lady Stark’s voice again. “And I will listen to your words, my husband. But do not expect evil words or deeds from my part. I do love you, and I will until the very day we part for two different worlds.”

Arya heard soft steps and a long sigh from the man left behind. Then, with a tiny bit of amusement, she listened to her father mutter, “Damned be all women.”

***

“The Heart tree can wait.” Arya told Nymeria when they got out of there. The wolf growled playfully. “But the feast cannot. I need to make sure that I be there.”

Nymeria looked as surprised as any human would for hearing _Arya_ say those words.

“What? Sansa is family, I need to make sure her suitor isn’t big and daft and fat and stinky.”

Nymeria whined again, this time with disbelief, and Arya laughed.

***

“Why is it that I don’t believe you have no ulterior motives behind this request?”

“Oh, Sansa, always so smart.” Arya sighed and leaned toward her sister a bit, like she was to reveal the secret. Her sister reluctantly followed her actions.

Once close enough to see into the darkness of Sansa’s ear, Arya whispered: “Micah told me his father prepared this excellent roasted – “

“ _Arya_!” Sansa bolted up straight with an exasperated sigh. “All right, I will help you, but you must make certain not to make any problems.”

“I will not, sister dear. Not for the good of yours.” Arya promised and Sansa squinted with annoyance and distrust.

***

“What the hell is it that you’re wearing?!”

“It’s called a _gown_ , Robb, all women wear it!”

“And since when do you, too?”

Arya rolled her eyes. “Don’t worry. I won’t for long.”

When she walked inside her brother’s room, she found only one of the room’s residents inside. Robb was there, but his twin brother was not. Robb was, much like her, already scrubbed clean and dressed for tonight. He was wearing fine, dark blue clothes that suited his eyes and Tully red hair perfectly. He almost looked like one of the knights in Sansa’s songs, but Arya always thought of those characters as pretty, but slender and weak. Robb was certainly not weak – he was strong and powerful and mighty.

“You’ve changed. How old are you, again?”

“Almost seven and ten.” Arya said. “Changed in what matter?”

Robb rolled his eyes. “I don’t know why Sansa let you dress that gown – it’s revealing way too much. Come over here, look at your reflection.”

She reluctantly took her brother’s hand, and he gripped her knuckles softly and steered her to the long mirror on the wall. “Sansa didn’t let me dress anything. She only took care of my hair. This is a gown I got from someone, years ago.”

Robb sighed and put his hands on her shoulder, standing behind her. There was only bare skin where his palms lay, and when she looked into her reflection, she knew Robb was right.

“We hardly look related.” Robb scoffed.

“I think we do, a bit. There’s something about your eyes… our eyes. Shape, not the colour. And facial features, too.”

Arya saw Robb smile in their reflection.

He was taller than her, chin touching the top of her head, his grin huge and proud. His blue eyes twinkling, and her own face flushed with a small smile. She dared not think too much of her long face – it seemed rather pretty with her long, dark, wild hair pulled back into a complicated braid. Some locks fell out, framing her face, her big eyes with silvery grey in them, her long freckled nose, her plump lips, her skin fair and almost white.

The gown had open shoulders, accentuating her breasts that, admittedly, have grown a lot since last time she wore a gown. That last time was almost 3 years ago.

The gown itself had long sleeves, just like the tunic, if not even longer and wider (but this was a fashion, something supposed to be that way),  and it was grey, a similar grey to the grey in her eyes. It was lighter than Sansa’s gown, not nearly as layered, and not nearly as rich and proper. But in a way, Arya thought as she followed the line of her hips and thin waist and larger bosom with her eyes, Arya doubted anyone would turn around after her when she walked by if she wore a dress like Sansa’s. In this one, though…

“Men will be falling before you.” Robb said and squeezed her shoulders.

“Arya?”

Robb and Arya turned around to see a stunned Jon standing on the door.

“Jon?”

Her brother seemed a bit angry, a bit sad, a bit amazed. “You don’t look yourself.”

She smiled sadly. “It’s a plan.”

Jon’s eyes met Arya’s, the most similar eyes in the whole of Winterfell, except of their father who they both inherited their eyes from. “I don’t like it.”

“It’ll be all right.” She said softly. “I’m doing this for Sansa.”

“For Sansa?” Robb came to stand beside them, creating a triangle. “Is she in danger?”

“Most people wouldn’t call it that.”

“But you would?” Jon said. When she nodded, he added “Is it marriage?”

“Lucky guess.” Robb muttered when Arya nodded again. “Who do they want for her?”

“Crown prince.” Arya swallowed through the lump in her throat. “Nobody knows! I accidentally heard lady Stark mention it to father when I went to Godswood. They were there, and I just…”

Jon and Robb nodded. “What’s this plan of yours?” Jon asked.

“I don’t know. I just want to see if the crown prince is good enough for her. If he’s not, I’ll make Nymeria slaughter him in his sleep.”

“Grey Wind will help.” Robb swore.

“Ghost, too.” Jon nodded.

Arya smiled and took their hands in hers. “ _My_ brothers.”

It was all she could say to prove her love. She could tell them she loved them, but she knew they knew.

After all, calling them her family was wrong. Bastards had no family.

***

Sansa didn’t seem to pay much attention to the crown prince. Which made sense, honestly – her yellow prince looked a lot prettier. The crown prince looked more like Robb in that sense – not weak enough to be pretty enough.

But he was fairly interesting. Arya had watched him a lot. She followed his movements while she was certain Sansa wasn’t in any sort of danger. The prince was tall, maybe even a bit taller than Robb. He was well muscled, with broad shoulders. His skin was tanned, his eyes bluer than summer sky. His hair blacker than Arya though was possible. His features strong, dark, his jaw squared and strong and the muscles in his jaw working non-stop, something Arya became fascinated with. His eyes had a particular look about them, like blades shooting at anyone he looked at.

Arya thought about what it felt like to be looked at by those majestic eyes, but she was just a bastard, sitting far from the royal tables. Once Robb came to see her and sent Jon soon afterward.

“Robb says you lost the point of your plan, but not its target.” Jon informed her.

“What?” Arya hardly had enough strength to look away from the prince – she had just seen him smile for the first time as he talked to her younger brother Bran, and his smile was magnificent and addicting.

“Robb thinks you like the prince. I agree.” Jon said in a mocking tone.

“That’s stupid.” She informed him, trying to see Jon’s eyes and not think about the blue ones. “Everyone knows a bastard’s place is never near the highborns.”

“And yet, here I am, talking to you.”

Arya’s forehead frowned. “You’re my brother, that’s not the same.”

***

It took her less than an hour to decide she had nothing to worry about when it came to Sansa, and to realize staring at the prince was not a good idea, nor was it a safe one.

So she ran out of the hall, hoping Catelyn Stark wouldn’t see her, but knowing all the same she would.

She didn’t dare walk out in the cold, especially in that light gown she wore, so she sat on a staircase far from the hall.

Bastard’s blood, she thought.

Another feeling in her was awakened that night, all because she had a bastard’s blood.

She wanted to cry or break something, because she knew none of her yearns and desires would ever be satisfied. The lust she came to feel when she watched the prince and his strong arms, the soft skin of his neck, his lips… she knew she could never have any of it.

Who would ever look at a bastard and see a person behind that?

“Are you Arya?”

She looked up from the fabric covering her lap to see blue eyes shooting blades into her heart.


End file.
